Gravity Issue 24 - Joy Yourcenar

Joy Yourcenar

Fall Fatale

Fog wraps her arms
around the city,
trails cool, indifferent fingers
through black water.
One touch
and all mundane
becomes mysterious
as you wait
in the light rain
for the girl
with raspberry sherbet lips
to appear.
Turning the first maple leaf
corner red,
she knows you’re watching.
Grey flows insolently
from her swaying hips
as summer walks away
from you.

Homicidal Maniacs Eat My Face Off

Homicidal maniacs eat my face off.
Lord knows I try to stop them
but they infiltrate my dreams
through a complex system of optic Morse code.
Thinking to foil their insidious plot,
I send fallacious, salacious messages,
flicking and fluttering my Mata Hari eyelashes to no avail.
They’ve come to steal my poems,
replacing them with brambled mumbles
too prickly to tongue.

I feel so funky with no face.
Burly clergymen and small neurotic dogs
recognize me by my scent though feral cats
and border guards find me translucent --nothing new there.
Featureless, I’ll blur into your television screen,
generic, the ultimate talk show guest.
I’ll end writing hip
yet socially lightened sitcoms on your skin,
entire scenes pithy and complete between your finger webs.

Homicidal maniacs eat my face off,
burp discreetly behind latex gloved hands
and serve my lips as after dinner mints,
the creamy pinked sateen of intimate flesh
piquant; perfect with fresh lime salsa.
I recommend they spread me
on stone ground cracked wheat crackers
accompanied with a dark, rich beer.
I apologize, in advance, for the crunchy bits.

How We Sleep

One arm curled behind your head, second pillow,
your moonpaled skin gleams cool as bone.
Lured to touch, I pull you over me,
the black comforter down over us.

Lying back to bottom, I give myself to
your mutable body flowing round me, second skin,
to the sanctuary of one hand cupping my breast.

Willing to pretend it's the night I love,
I follow you into sleep.

Joy Olivia Yourcenar writes: I am a poet,teacher, mother, technical writer and spoken word DJ presently dividing my time between Halifax, Nova Scotia and Orono, Maine. If I am writing, the door of my bedroom is closed and there is a sign on it that reads, "Before you knock, ask yourself, 'Am I on fire? Am I bleeding?' If the answer to both of these questions is no, DON'T KNOCK!" My children, amazingly enough, are both young writers. I collaborate with Eric Boutilier-Brown, my muse and life-partner, on visual poetry website, icon/graphy, that combines my imagery with his photographic images. There is more poetry on my website, Mythologies . The best way to get to know me is through my poetry.